


with wisteria

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Consent, M/M, Multi, No mpreg, Polyamory, Rating May Change, Relationship Negotiation, here be feelings, honestly this is probably the tamest omegaverse fic ever, probably, someone give gladio a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:43:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: KM prompt:Gladio as hidden Omega.Amicitias have always been and always will be Alphas. Until Gladio.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving this over from the kinkmeme. It's a WIP that may or may not gain an explicit rating, I'm not sure yet. It's also not my priority in terms of writing, so updates are slow and _possibly_ discontinued. Seemed a waste not to share it as it is though!

 

Gladio is fifteen when he Presents. By doing so, he defies every expectation set upon him as the Prince’s Sworn Shield and tarnishes the Amicitia name forever. The only mercy is that he is at home at the time, pacing the walls of his bedroom with the restlessness of all teenagers in the final days before they Present. He has been _uncomfortable_ for days, tired but beyond sleep, irritable and hungry as though puberty has come all at once, his body shifting and stretching and changing as it settles into its Role. The itching is the worst, a hot rash beneath his skin. So accustomed to cold showers he has become this week, the frigid water his only relief in the gruelling days of the Sworn Shield, Gladio doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to face a hot bath or a sauna again.

He takes respite in the knowledge that, as an Alpha (for Amicitias have _always_ been Alphas), he won’t have to suffer through heats. The prospect of _knotting_ is enough to make his head spin (and that is a conversation with the Royal Nurse that Gladio won’t soon forget), but Omegas definitely have it bad. If heats are anything remotely akin to this agonising week of sweating through three layers of clothes and nauseating at every whiff of perfume, then he doesn’t envy Omegas in the slightest.

It’s just as well that he’s an Alpha - for Amicitias have _always_ been and always will be Alphas.

Until Gladio.

Dinner that night is an awkward affair. Iris, bless her naive, seven-year-old heart, doesn’t yet have the nose to distinguish between the overbearing Alphas, the subtle Omegas, and the almost scentless Betas. She knows her brother has been unwell and she is old enough to understand that _something important_ is happening, so she slides a few parsnips onto Gladio’s plate because she knows he likes them - and it helps that their father is Freaking Out in the drawing room, so he isn’t there to disapprove.

Gladio tries to smile. “Thanks kiddo.” He shoves a parsnip into his mouth and ruffles his sister’s hair, and she lights up like a moogle, cheerful and so easy to please.

The same cannot be said for their father - the left hand and Shield to the King - whose dinner sits untouched at the opposite side of the table. With their family being so tightly woven into the daily duties of the Royal Household, nights where they can all sit together to share a meal are scarce. Both Gladio and Iris have grown up seeing more of each other than their father, but it has always been that way for Amicitias, and always will be. As the Prince grows up, Gladio, too, will spend less and less time in the family home, and then Iris herself will find her niche in service to the line of Lucis. Most likely, she will decide between following their father into the Council or Gladio and their late mother into the Crownsguard, and Gladio pushes a potato around his plate at the thought of _his_ uncertain future.

The Crownsguard is not exclusive to Alphas, but the number of Betas is few. Whether or not there are any Omegas - any _other_ Omegas - is the reason for the coffee-stained paperwork and the ink bespattering all over the carpet by their father’s desk. The carpet may be salvageable but redoing the paperwork is a few hours’ work, and Gladio hadn’t exactly had the time to _calm the fuck down_ before barging into his father’s office with his pheromones a storm.

It hadn’t been the most dignified moment for either Amicitia. At any other time, Gladio’s father would have been swift to reprimand him for charging in. Gladio supposes it just goes to show how unforeseen his Presenting as an Omega had been.

An Omega. He’s an _Omega_.

He would smash his head against the table were Iris not still puppy-dog eyeing him to eat his parsnips.

“You are excused from your morning duties, Gladiolus,” Clarus announces upon his return, and he would seem his characteristically composed self were there not coffee dotted across his forehead. “I have scheduled you in with a nurse after breakfast.”

Gladio fights back a cringe. The infirmary is located on the other side of the citadel.

“He will - attend you here,” his father clarifies in a faltering tone, his cough encouraging Gladio to better smother his look of horror. “During which we will discuss how best to adjust to this change.”

Clarus resumes his meal with little fanfare, as though his sheer force of will to remain level-headed in light of the evening’s drama will exorcise Gladio’s new stench from the dining room. Pointedly, he doesn’t wipe the coffee from his face nor comment on Iris’ miraculous lack of parsnips, and if the pretence is supposed to soothe Gladio into feeling assured, then it’s doing a shit job of it.

“What did the King have to say?” Gladio urges, refusing to believe that his father hasn’t already discussed the topic with the reigning monarch - his closest friend and father to the boy that Gladio is sworn to protect. Gladio’s continued service in the Crownsguard is not the only matter up for debate; he is the Prince’s Sworn Shield, that’s his purpose, that’s his _life_. Destined to be an Alpha as all Sworn Shields have been, he was ideal for the role. But now, as an Omega, will he be considered _incapable_?

Omegas have the right to fight for what they believe in just as any Alpha or Beta, but Gladio doesn’t think he knows of any Omegas in the military. Is that because their typically softer, more subservient personalities compels them elsewhere - into medicine, teaching, or administrative work - or does the military play an underhand role in deterring them from service?

Gladio wishes he knew more about Omegas - and not just how to care for one. He was assumed to be an Alpha and brought up that way, and if his father’s disapproving silence is enough of a hint, then things are about to change.

“What the King and I discuss is between ourselves,” Clarus reprimands, an eyebrow pushing wrinkles up into his brow. Gladio doesn’t bow under the stare as he usually would - as he usually _wouldn’t_ , something in him yearning to yield to to the Alpha at the table - but he doesn’t kid himself to think that he’s victorious when his father sighs.

“I have informed the King of your Presentation and we will consider the implications of this for your position as Sworn Shield. Your appointment with the nurse will be beneficial in reviewing your options.”

“Options?”

“Yes Gladio, you have options,” Clarus says, and here his tone softens from a Royal Councilman of Insomnia to the father who refuses to eat the peas on his plate. It is the voice he usually wields at home; the one that praises Gladio’s training and ushers Iris into bed. And yet it is still an Alpha voice, ending a discussion swift and firm.

Gladio’s never been any good at ending arguments. He tries not to let his emotions get the best of him but he _feels_ with such passion that he cannot always control it. He had thought his need to protect was an Alpha trait, but he is not calm like his father, like the King, nor the many Alphas in the Guard. Emotion drives him to study and train, and perhaps that should’ve been a clue all along.

“Dad’s not eaten his peas,” Iris admonishes, singing the reprimand with a childish tune.

Gladio smiles.

Clarus doesn’t, but only because his face morphs into one of hyperbolic affront. “Well _Iris_ hasn’t eaten her parsnips.”

Iris laughs and waves a fork over her plate. “I haven’t got any parsnips!” she declares with all the cunning of a seven-year-old.

“Oh, silly me,” Clarus replies, nodding at her observation. Both of his eyebrows rise this time, and Iris squirms in her seat. Gladio’s been on the receiving end of that look too many times to express how it makes him want to melt through the table and onto the floor. “You’re right. _I wonder where they’ve gone_.”

Gladio looks down to the pile of parsnips of his plate and then replies with a straight face: “Beats me. Iris, you seen ‘em?”

“Nope!” she chimes. “I think a moogle ate them!”

“Is that so,” their father concedes, and normality is temporarily restored.

 

 

 

 _Options_ , as it turns out, is not the word Gladio would have used.

Take suppressors, remain in the service of the Crown, and tell no one of his Role - or refuse the suppressors, out himself as an Omega, and bring shame to his family history by seeking a purpose in life beyond the citadel walls.

An Omega as the Prince’s Sworn Shield will be considered a liability, as Gladio learns, emotionally unstable, weak, soft, and incapable of even standing up to a tame chocobo. (If he had any doubts about the military phasing out Omegas from the ranks, then he doesn’t now). King Regis is more reasonable, and the abundance of Omegas in his court is testimony to that. Despite the surrounded backdated backwaters, Insomnia is well on its way to becoming a progressive capital. Omegas have more rights now than they did a hundred, fifty, or even twenty years ago, and the nurse informs Gladio of this with a great weight in his tone. It’s probably that the nurse is trying to encourage some reclusive, optimistic side of Gladio to surface as their appointment drags on, but Gladio has never been one to see the bright side of things. A _realist_ , on the other hand, would be an adept description for him, so he simply nods along to the nurse’s information-dump and tries not to think of his dwindling prospects in the military, and hopes that his father, overseeing the check-up like a statue by the door, is taking more of it in.

The nurse drops an _introduction of Omegas_ bomb of a crash-course onto Gladio’s Alpha-predisposed mind and promises to prescribe him the appropriate suppressants. Even Clarus looks uncomfortable as the nurse dashes off, but he, at least, finds solace in the presence of the King. Gladio, on the other hand, is still reeling from the nurse’s appointment when his father whisks him out of the parlour and into the drawing room, and because Gladio’s day hasn’t started _terribly enough_ , this is where the King _himself_ is breaking open a can of coffee on the couch.

Gladio can count the number of times that the King has visited the Amicitia family home on one hand. This is probably the reason that he often forgets that the King and his father are bound together by more than mere duty - they are friends. Yet, seeing King Regis relax in their drawing room doesn’t make it any easier for Gladio to believe that _his father_ would ever flop over the sofa in the full dress of his lordship and sip coffee straight from the can.

It’s just as well that Iris is in class. King Regis doesn’t need that sort of gossip.

“ _Astrals_ , Clarus, I thought you’d never come out,” King Regis says, humming appreciatively into the can.

Gladio stares at him a second too long to be proper before hastily ducking into a bow. He misses the look that his father and the King share over his head, but there is no mistaking Clarus’ sigh.

“Forgive the delay,” says the King’s Shield, laying the apology on so thickly that Gladio does a double-take, not daring to believe that his father is capable of sarcasm. “Please, my home is yours. Make yourself comfortable.”

There’s no doubt that King Regis already has. He and Clarus exchange pleasantries - exchange _banter_ more like - and Gladio hovers out-of-place in his own home. He can’t imagine ever having a relationship like this with the Prince, and his jaw twitches at the thought that he might never get the chance.

“Father, may I be excused?” he asks, not wanting to impose. In fact, being relieved from his morning duties with the Prince has left Gladio at something of a loss. He would have appreciated the chance to sweat away the lingering itch of this terrible week by knocking the twerpy Prince onto his arse.

“Sit, Gladiolus. It would be unfit to discuss this matter without you,” King Regis says, adding with a twinkle in his eye, “With your father’s permission of course.”

Gladio can’t imagine his father denying the King anything, so he sits down before Clarus has said otherwise. King Regis’ amusement only lingers a moment more before his smile slowly slides away, and with it, the familiar noises of the Amicitia home quieten to hear him speak.

Something in Gladio twists at the command that the King has over the room.

“How do you feel, Gladiolus?” King Regis asks. The Ring of Lucii _clinks_ against the aluminium can as he drink. It is a delicate, terrible sound, and nothing at all like the city that it implores its wearer to protect.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, how I feel isn’t going to change anything.” Gladio can’t change that he is an Omega just as he cannot change the will of the King, but if King Regis agrees with this reality, then he only laughs.

“Nonsense,” the King says. “Do you wish to continue your service to the Crown?”

Gladio doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Do you wish to remain as my son’s Sworn Shield?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that there are many who will contest an Omega in such a position, particularly should my son Present as an Alpha?”

There isn’t a doubt in Gladio’s mind that the Prince will be an Alpha - not even now when he, himself, has defied every expectation. Those with the blood of the Lucis Caelum line have been Alphas for far longer than the Amicitias; every King was Alpha and every King that will be shall be Alpha. It is said that the Crystal chooses her Kings, and it is the Alphas that she favours to protect her.

Gladio inclines his head, less of a nod and more of a bow. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am.”

He wouldn’t dare to suggest that he has any ability in reading the King, but Gladio thinks that King Regis approves. “Then never say that how you feel doesn’t change anything, Gladiolus. Should the suppressants work effectively, then I fail to see why you cannot resume your duties. I will suggest that you refrain advertising your Role until you are comfortable with it, at least, but it is entirely up to you who you share this knowledge with. You will be allowed respite from your duties as regulated by your cycle, but there will be repercussions should you take advantage of this leniency.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. The Prince -?”

“My son still has much to learn,” King Regis admits, which must be the kindest euphemism for _he won’t notice_ that Gladio has ever heard. The King’s eyes crinkle as he shares in the thought. Before, Gladio would have said that laughter makes people look younger, but the crow’s feet only seem to age King Regis. His hair, too, is a premature silver and dusted with snow, and he is _old_ , Gladio realises, wondering when it had come to be so.

It is not his place to ask.

“I will do my best to teach him,” Gladio promises, knowing that his thoughts should only be of the Prince. King Regis may be sovereign, but it is beside (behind, before) the future King that Gladio must stand.

Hopefully… Hopefully King Regis has many years remaining of his reign.

“See that you do. Now, if you _would_ excuse us, I have some matters to discuss with your father.”

“Of course, Your Majesty, I -” Gladio pauses in his bow, one hand lingering where it is crossed over his chest. The King and his father are watching him, and Gladio finds that he hasn't the words to express how he feels.

He settles for, “Thank you,” and King Regis smiles.

 

 

 

The suppressant dosage is barely enough to last the day, but Gladio doesn't complain when the Royal Nurse returns the following morning with the pills. He'll have to take one once a day for as long as he wishes to contain his heats, and considering that's the rest of his life as far as Gladio is concerned, he and the pharmacist are going to become intimately related from here on out.

The nurse also suggests that he forgo the suppressants to experience a heat at least two or three times a year - _depending on the duration of your cycle_ , the nurse clarifies, explaining that shorter heats tend to occur more frequently than those that last for days. Gladio is still trying not to associate himself with the word _heat_ , but the nurse extracts a promise that he not abuse the suppressants no matter how uncomfortable he is with the idea.

“The medication is safe provided that you use it sensibly. Do _not_ take more than one pill in twenty-four hours. If you miss a dose, take it as soon as you remember. If you miss a few, don't panic. It will take a few days for their effect to wear off, so as soon as you can get a hold of more, start taking them again. Otherwise you will induce a heat. Make sure to read the pamphlet as well; there can be side effects.”

“Side effects?” Gladio unfolds the booklet, marvelling at the extensive list that pours open into his hands. _Migraine-type headaches_ sounds bad enough, but it continues on through liver problems, symptoms of blood clots, and -

“‘Contact your doctor immediately if you become _pregnant_?’”

“Yes. These tablets aren't a form of contraception, but as they are designed to mimic the effect of hormones, we advise that Omegas cease taking them should they suspect that they have fallen pregnant. These are also tablets that we assign to Omegas of _any sex_ , my Lord, so rest assured that not all points will apply in your case.”

Gladio flushes, feeling like a fool. His old science tutor is probably rolling over in his grave.

Mercifully, the nurse has dealt with teenagers experiencing existential crises before. “The pamphlet contains all of the details of the side effects. Let a nurse or doctor know if you begin feeling unwell or you have any concerns. Do you have any questions?”

Just one worth mentioning. “When can I return to my duties?”

“I suggest waiting at least a full day after you begin the medication. However, provided there are no causes for concern, you should be fit for duty the day after tomorrow. If that is all?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The nurse takes his leave. Gladio crinkles one of the paper bags in his hands, feeling the little boxes of tablets jostle inside. There are three bags in total, six boxes, and a ridiculous amount of pills, and Gladio sighs as he scoops them up.

At least he only has to take a dose in the mornings. Hiding his Role would be impossible if he had to cart this lot around.

The first day of using his suppressants passes with little fanfare. Iris has class and their father has his duties to the King, so Gladio is stuck at home on his own. Jared, the elderly family butler, comes and goes throughout the day, offering refreshments and snippets of idle chatter, but Gladio is content to lounge over the sofa with his nose in a book and generally ignore the bustle of the citadel turning ever-faithfully without a care.

He doesn't experience any of the unwanted side effects of the medication. In fact, he doesn't feel any different at _all_ , but his father offers reassurance when Gladio shoves down his pride to ask what he smells like later that night.

“You smell so little of anything that one would assume you are a Beta,” Clarus says, hanging up his cloak and slipping out of his shoes. “Is Iris home?”

“Yeah, she's in her room. I don't feel any different though.”

Clarus hums a thoughtful sound, reaching to place a hand against Gladio’s forehead. “You still feel feverish? Have you contacted the nurse?”

“No, I -” Gladio swats his father’s hand away, wishing he hadn't said anything. Getting the nurse involved will probably postpone his return to his duties as a Shield. “It's nothing. If I smell like a Beta, then it’s working fine.”

He hopes.

Clarus concedes. He collects Gladio’s book from the table and motions for his son to follow. “Then you will not be opposed to a workout before dinner. Call down your sister. It is light enough that we can spar outside.”

 

 

 

The Prince Noctis, as per his father’s prediction, hardly spares Gladio’s reappearance a second glance. Noctis is, of course, pre-warned that he is expected to attend class with his Shield once again, but Gladio had expected _some_ reaction: a brief comment, a _where’ve you been?_ or a tone-deaf, twelve-year-old attempt at sarcasm or _something_ , but Noctis is unmoved. In fact, considering how little the Prince enjoys their training sessions, it’s more likely that he revelled in Gladio’s week-long absence.

Gladio can’t find it in himself to be offended. Disappointed, yes, because it’s plain as day that the Prince hasn’t practiced in the brief respite, but insulted, no. Prince or not, Noctis is a twelve-year-old child with more interest in sleeping and video games than studying, so Gladio sets the bar of expectation low. As long as Noctis is attentive in their scheduled hours, turning up on time and remaining motivation for as long as Gladio has to teach him, then Gladio cannot ask for more. The kid’s already got enough on his plate, and it’s no secret that King Regis wants his son to have a normal childhood as possible. Things will be different when Noctis is older - he not be able to slack in his duties whenever his Shield is not around - but Gladio also hopes that they will be beyond basic footwork and hand-to-hand combat at that point.

Astrals, he hopes.

The suppressants must continue to work, for nobody dies of shock in Gladio’s presence. Whispers do follow him through the citadel corridors, however, many of the Alphas in the Crownsguard stare a little too long as Gladio goes about his day. At first, he fears that the medication has failed him, but then he recalls his father’s words of reassurance and decides that, whatever the hell their problem is, it can’t be his Omega scent.

“They are merely surprised at your Role, is all,” Ignis supplies without fanfare, glancing up from his work as Gladio flicks listlessly through a book. The table and the two armchairs tucked cosy into the library corner isn’t _their_ spot, but seldom does anybody else dare to use it. Ignis once cowered a Kingsglaive into finding another table simply by wiping his glasses.

“What?” Gladio replies, having said nothing to the studious fourteen-year-old since flopping into the armchair and debating whether to concuss himself on the desk. He hasn’t known Ignis for long - not even a year - and they’ve been something-like-friends for less than that. Still, Gladio has never met somebody quite so perceptive, and he knows he never will again as Ignis shoots him the _pay attention Gladiolus_ look.

“There has been no record of an Amicitia Settling as a Beta before,” Ignis says.

“You -” Gladio lets his book fall shut. “Why were you reading my family files?”

Ignis doesn’t deny it. “They’re public record.”

“That’s a means, not a reason.”

“Given that you’ve returned to your duties, I anticipated that you would make use of the library at some point today, so I deemed it the appropriate place to converse with you.”

Oh yeah, Gladio has also never met anybody else who has _swallowed a dictionary_ before.

“Cute,” he drawls - because the fact that Ignis thinks he can talk circles around him is pretty cute (and maybe only a teeny bit true). “That’s still not a reason.”

Ignis colours faintly, ducking ever so slightly behind his text. Gladio would call it _hiding_ , but Ignis would call it _strategic retreat_. “The citadel has been abuzz with conversation today. I merely wanted to clarify what I’d heard.”

Gladio can already tell where this is going. “About me.”

“Largely, yes.”

“Gossip?”

“I… wouldn’t call it that.”

“Well then what would _you_ call it?”

Ignis’ mouth twitches. “A shameful waste of time and a thoughtless display of indecency,” he claims, expression sour.

There’s a reason Gladio likes this kid.

“I am sure that their interest will wane by the turn of the week,” Ignis continues, and Gladio realises with a rumbling laugh that the kid is trying to _reassure_ him. Underneath layers of cool calculation and intellectual indifference, Ignis really is just an awkward teenager with a heart weighed heavy with gold.

He'll be a good adviser for Noctis, Gladio knows.

“A Beta’s not so bad,” Gladio reasons - _in comparison to an Omega anyway_ , he doesn't add. He hadn't spared a thought for the implications of the suppressants making him smell like a Beta; he's still _not an Alpha_ , and the citadel must be having a field day. He can only imagine what their reaction would have been if the suppressants hadn't worked.

Ignis seems surprised by his composure. “The rumours of your disappointment are exaggerated then.”

Not really, but Gladio only shrugs. Ignis takes this as an agreement, and Gladio is happy to let him think that.

“A Beta in the service of the Crown can only be as asset,” Ignis decides, pushing at his glasses in a nervous manner. There's something light in his voice, so quiet and hopeful that Gladio almost misses it.

“You're gonna be Settling soon,” he says, remembering that Ignis is fast-approaching fifteen. Not everyone Presents at fifteen, of course, but very few people Present before that. Ignis will be officially assigned as the Prince’s adviser upon his next birthday, so the chances that he will Settle before that are slim. At least, if he has the chance to bond with the Prince and royal family before then, maybe they won't reassign him should he (also) Present as Omega.

“I would… be content as a Beta, I believe,” Ignis admits. “Not that there is any research to suggest that one's will has any influence on the matter.”

Unfortunately for Gladio.

“Guess you'll have to see,” he agrees, unable to offer any reassurance.

Ignis inclines his head. “I suppose,” he says, before burying himself back into his work.

 

 

 

Eventually, the rumours die away and Gladio accustoms himself to living like a Beta. He takes a tablet everyday and tries not to think about his heats, and somewhere between training Noctis, studying with Ignis, and learning swordsmanship under his father, he realises that life in the citadel turns on.

Ignis Presents as an Alpha.

“I suppose we cannot always get what we want,” is all he has to say about it.

Ignis’ Role changes little about their friendship. If his heightened senses give him any indication that Gladio is taking suppressants, then he says nothing about it. The fact that he says nothing suggests to Gladio that he isn’t aware; for all that Ignis is a quiet, warm-hearted teenager who prefers the company of books to people, he _is_ an Alpha, and Gladio doesn’t think Ignis would have any reservations about backing him into a corner and inflicting the interrogation of a _lifetime_ were he to learn that Gladio has been avoiding his heats.

Suppressants are perfectly legal, but they’re usually used in moderation - for a week or two, or maybe a month at most. There are many reasons why an Omega may wish to suppress a heat at any given time - maybe they’re going on holiday, maybe they’re due to give a speech, maybe they’re a student sitting their final exams - but suppressing one’s nature as an Omega _altogether_ is uncommon. Gladio is sure he isn’t the first; the nurse hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash at his father’s request, so there must be other Omegas of nobility that take advantage of their wealth. Of course, the very motivation behind suppressing his Role means he has no idea who these other Omegas may be; he doesn’t particularly want to know, but at the same time, he has questions that he could only bear to ask an Omega to answer.

Being surrounded by Alphas all day is taxing. Gladio never realised just how many there are in the Crownsguard, the Kingsglaive, and even the Council. His initial panic over the suppressants spontaneously failing him wore off after a few weeks, but that isn’t to say their effectiveness fluctuates over time. Three or four hours after a dose tends to be when the tablets are at their most effective, masking his scent to the point where some Alphas (and Omegas) cannot smell him at all. Gladio rearranges his schedule to take advantage of this period, hitting the gym or dominating the training hall without fear of overwhelming the medication’s efforts by sweating a puddle into the floor. The effects wane towards the end of the day, so Gladio trains the Prince after lunch and then studies into the evening, reluctant to push his body beyond what the suppressants can cope with.

As a Sworn Shield, this isn’t always easy. His duties increase as he hits sixteen, passes seventeen, and sweats and learns and fights his way to eighteen. He spends less time training with his father and more time with the Crownsguard, running laps, getting beaten into the ground and beating others in return, and surviving many tedious hours patrolling the walls, surveying the streets, and guarding the gates into the citadel. Night patrols are the worst. A morning person by nature, happy to wake with the dawn when the world is quiet and the day is new, Gladio grumbles at every evening assignment. It doesn’t help that he never patrols alone - Crownsguard units are a minimum of three people, and Gladio has yet to encounter a unit without at least one Alpha. He has nothing against the pair that he is often assigned with - a man and a woman, a Beta and Alpha respectively - but he wouldn’t go as far as to call them _friends_ . Naturally social, Gladio does enjoy meeting people. He enjoys working with people, looking out for them, learning about them; people are _fascinating_ , and Gladio can count on one hand the number of people who he wouldn’t take out for a drink just to listen to them talk.

He trusts his Crownsguard unit to have his back on a patrol, and yet, once the uniforms are off, they go their separate ways. Gladio doesn’t mind. He understands the need to separate work and home lives, and he’s sure that his duty to the Prince casts him in an intimidating, untouchable light. He doesn’t have the luxury of ‘switching off’ outside of the nine-to-five working day. Sure, he has time to himself, time which he spends with his family, wandering the city, or buried in a book, but as the Prince’s Sworn Shield, he is always on call.

He loves it. He’s _proud_ to serve the Crown.

But that doesn’t make the newly Presented, fifteen-year-old _Alpha_ Prince and heir to the Lucis Caelum line any less of a _goddamn_ _little_ _shit_ to deal with.

Gladio understands that the Crown of Lucis and the Ring of Lucii are heavy burdens that the Prince will have to bear one day. The Crystal is a merciless guardian of this kingdom, offering the unyielding protection of the Wall in return for the lifeforce of the Royal family. With the Amicitia family living so intimately with the King and Prince, their family home tucked into the heart of the citadel, Clarus and Gladio never more than a phone call away, Gladio has seen the toll that the Crystal has on the King. Over these last few years, the King has seemed to age a decade, wrinkles replacing his lines of laughter, silver hair creeping into his midnight black. Gone is the King of Gladio’s childhood who lounged over sofas and chased the Prince down the halls. His cane has become a necessity to his Royal attire, and some days Gladio sees the King struggling with walking still, lingering after a council on legs that labour to hold him.

Gladio hates to think that the King’s time has come, but the Line of Lucis Caelum is one of mortality and grief. Prince Noctis may have to ascend the throne at the dawn of his adulthood - and if he does, then Gladio will make sure he’s ready.

Even if it means beating responsibility into the kid.

“Get up. Come at me again,” Gladio orders, hefting the greatsword over his shoulder. It’s not his beloved custom-made, gold-embellished blade by any means, but it does the trick for training. Granted, he could probably parry the Prince’s blows with a twig, but he doesn’t want to dishearten the kid - more than he has already, at any least.

Noctis huffs, heaving himself up from the floor. Frustration tightens his grip on his sword and pride keeps his head high despite this seemingly-futile endeavour, but his stance is solid at any rate, his footwork swift and unmatched.

Were he not sparring the man who taught him.

“This is stupid,” the Prince grumbles, rolling the sword in his hand. “It’s never going to work. We’ve been at this for hours.”

 _Here we go_ , Gladio despairs. “It’s going to work because it has to,” he counters, refusing to budge an inch at the snarl. Noctis has a mean temper when he’s frustrated, but luckily for Gladio, so does he. “What sort of King will you be if you can’t warp?”

“I’m not a King.”

“You’re gonna be sooner or -”

A sword flashes past Gladio’s shoulder, a bolt of lightning striking blue. Noctis disappears with a yell, crackling like white embers in the path of his blade, and Gladio is impressed for the second it takes the Prince to tumble out of the warp, reappearing in an explosion of light and profanities as he crashes into the flat edge of Gladio’s blade.

Gladio raises a single eyebrow.

“Oh shut up,” Noctis hisses before anything can be said. His wayward sword vanishes with a flick of his wrist, and with another, he yanks it out of his arsenal again. He’s got that much down at least - if only he could move _himself_ so effortlessly when warping between his weapons.

Gladio gives Noctis a minute to swear at the ceiling before nudging him to his feet. “Again. Try not to knock yourself out this time.”

“Piss off.”

“Show me a warp an’ maybe I will.”

Noctis scoffs, bearing his teeth. A growl rumbles deep in his throat, the sound like a wolf stalking forth. Despite his suppressants, despite his training and his titanium spine, Gladio jerks at the thunderous sound, every single muscle in his body tensing. His stomach churning and teeth grinding teeth, he is paralysed by the look in the Prince’s eyes for a second - just a second and no more, but a second too long - before he throws caution to the wind and swings his greatsword around, slamming it against Noctis’ sword.

The Prince barely manages to parry the blow. The two blades crash together, metal grinding metal, and Noctis yelps as Gladio shoves him across the hall; he stumbles, throwing an arm out to catch himself, and something _cracks_ in the half-second before his sword flickers into a warp, Noctis’ body shattering into light behind it. He warps a few feet away, heaving and hunched over his sword, but then lets out a laugh when he realises what he just achieved.

Gladio marches over and hauls him up by the scruff of his collar. “I heard something snap,” he asserts over the Prince’s protesting, scanning the squirming teenager with a critical eye. “You broke anything?”

“No, no - get _off_ me. It was just my sword. I’m fine.”

“Good,” Gladio says, before sweeping his greatsword under Noctis’ feet and sending the boy crashing back onto the floor. Noctis grunts, a genuine sound of pain this time, but Gladio doesn’t give a damn with the sound of an Alpha still ringing in his ears. “Try to Influence me again and I’ll _try_ to break something.”

“What - but -” Noctis sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes goggling. “I swear I didn’t mean -”

He stops, clamping teeth down onto his lip. Deciding not to grace that with an answer, Gladio says nothing either, leaving the Prince and Shield staring at one another for a long, agonising moment.

“I’m -” Noctis tries. “Err -”

Something in Gladio’s chest twists at the kid’s mortification. He sighs, almost wishing that he hadn’t reacted now, but he also can’t deny the satisfaction he feels at the Prince learning his lesson. “All right, that’s enough for today. Cool down time - get walking.”

Noctis scrambles to his feet, but then hesitates in the shadow of Gladio’s towering figure. His mouth is twisted downwards, eyebrows knitted together. “Ignis is teaching me to… be an Alpha,” he mumbles, unable to meet Gladio’s hawkish gaze.

Gladio was already aware of that aspect to Ignis’ duties, but he plays along. “Yeah? Guess he needs to do a better job.”

“It’s not his fault!” Noctis snaps, and Gladio would smirk at how quickly he rises to Ignis’ defence were he not trying to prove a point. “I’m - new to this.”

Well _that’s_ not up for debate. “That ain’t an excuse. What if I’d been an Omega? No - come on, the King can Influence other Alphas, so you probably can too. You need to control your instincts or someone’s gonna get hurt. Iggy and I ain’t teaching you self-discipline for fun you know.”

He throws the Prince a bottle of water, speaking harsh and true. The fact that he _is_ an Omega isn’t important right now; an Alpha’s Influence is one that few Betas can deny, let alone Omegas, and if Noctis is to be a King for his people then he cannot exert his power over every single person that challenges him. Astrals above, enough blood has been shed from Alphas and Omegas butting heads throughout history.

“I know,” Noctis says, glaring at the bottle instead of Gladio, as he usually would.

Gladio figures that’s as close to an apology as he’s going to get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far!


	2. Chapter 2

 

Gladio wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen when Noctis enrolled in high school - despite the King’s reservations, the kid had insisted, going as far as recruiting Ignis to argue for his case - but it wasn’t this. Noctis is living independently now, or as independent as his father and the Crownsguard will permit anyway, in an apartment a few blocks from the citadel. Ignis has been arguably demoted to chauffeur and housewife, an observation that earned Gladio a _withering_ glare from his friend. Gladio’s duties have changed little - he still knocks the Prince around in the training hall most afternoons, although now his Crownsguard duties have lessened, and instead trips between the citadel and Noctis’ apartment fill his day. Sixteen, going on seventeen now, the Prince is slowly becoming more of a friend to Gladio than his charge, but it’s this crawling progression and Noctis’ awkward introversion that has Gladio breathing in a mouthful of coffee.

He coughs, spluttering around the burn of the drink down his throat. He’s not a _coffee-person_ by any means, but Ignis has taken to consuming the stuff at a terrifying rate and Gladio will admit to being curious.

“Ifrit’s _fire_ , Iggy, how do you drink this stuff?” he wheezes, reaching blindly for the water. “No, hells - forget that - Noct has _what_?”

“I daresay he has made a friend,” Ignis repeats, claiming Gladio’s rebutted coffee for himself. “I must admit to being sceptical at first, but the lad has been an almost permanent fixture at the Prince’s side these last few weeks. I've conducted a background check, of course -”

“Go figure.”

“ - and there is little about him worth noting. Entirely normal, in the grand scheme of things, although his financial situation may be cause for -”

“Relax, the kid’s not exactly noble, is he? Maybe he'll be good for the Prince.”

Ignis’ jaws twitches as it always does when he’s interrupted. Gladio will never admit to getting a kick out of it, but sometimes he does love rilling Ignis up. “Yes, that was my stance on the matter,” the advisor agrees. “He could provide valuable insight into the lives of the people beyond the citadel.”

Gladio laughs. “Astrals, Iggy, just say _commoners_.”

“ _Furthermore_ , Noctis does seem to enjoy his company,” Ignis presses, and the fact that he doesn’t contest the nickname for a second time is a win in Gladio’s books. He usually does, but Gladio is determined that with enough time and persistence, Ignis will warm to the idea. He has already relented to using _Gladio_ rather than the full _Gladiolus_ , and Gladio never thought he’d live to see the day.

“Well that's friendship, ain't it?” Gladio replies. “When d’you think we’ll get to meet the kid? Properly, I mean. Not for the five seconds it takes for Noct to scramble into the car after school.”

Ignis’ expression twists as though insulted by the implication that the Prince _scrambles_ anywhere. “I suppose that will be up to His Highness. I don’t wish to impose myself on their relationship.”

The day Ignis imposed himself onto anybody would be the day the world ends, as far as Gladio is concerned. For an Alpha, Ignis is markedly averse to asserting himself even to the slightest degree, preferring to remain in the shadows of the Council, court life, and Noctis’ daily routine. His forbearance isn’t due to a lack of confidence though - Ignis commits himself to both duties and personal goals with fervour, and when he’s right about something, which he nearly always is, he can be a _smug arsehole_ about it - but in the best of ways.

It’s one of the reasons Gladio respects him so much.

Still. He doesn’t want to be _too_ obvious about it, so he teases instead: “More than you would be cooking dinner for them everyday after school, you mean?”

“Yes,” Ignis replies curtly, glare daring Gladio to argue. “More than that.”

Gladio grins, shoving the last of his breakfast into his mouth. “I say we ambush the kid. Best way of gauging someone’s intentions.”

“That is remarkably _Alpha_ of you, Gladio. Are you certain that scaring the boy is a good idea? He _is_ a civilian, after all.”

The fact that Ignis hasn’t outright shot the idea down is approval in Gladio’s eyes. “Hey, come on,” he says, mind already whirring with a cruel and brilliant plan. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

 

 

If there’s one thing about Noctis’ new friend that is apparent from the second Gladio spots him through the laser-light dramatics and sweaty, teenage gloom of the downtown arcade, it’s that he _reeks_ of an Alpha. Gladio never would have pegged him as an Alpha just from looking at him - blond hair like a chocobo, skinny enough to imply underfed - but then Noctis has both the same Role and a similar build, and Gladio, himself, isn’t exactly the typical picture of an Omega either. However, there is no doubt that the kid bouncing at the Prince’s side is anything but an Alpha, his scent a kick in the teeth that urges Gladio to cover his nose.

Alphas in the citadel - the Council, the Crownsguard, and the Royal Family - are trained to exhibit great control over their Role. It will do no good for an Alpha in a position of such power to Influence the people about them; the political and ethical fallout would be catastrophic. The same restraint is not required of the average citizen, however, and as Gladio is someone who spends most of his days in the citadel, the stench of pheromones in the lower districts of the city always comes as a surprise.

Noctis’ friend doesn’t appear to be aware of his scent, and nobody else in the arcade so much as bats an eyelash as the kid with the chocobo-butt hair slaughters zombie after zombie in the video game.

Gladio’s nose twitches. His suppressants haven’t failed him yet, but right now he’s not so sure. He can feel his hands becoming clammy as he stalks deeper into the arcade, and he knows it isn’t due to nerves.

There’s nothing he can do about it now. Omega or not, he is _not_ going to let some unrestrained Alpha’s scent deter him from doing anything, and definitely not anything that involves the Prince’s safety.

Sure, Noctis’ new friend probably isn’t much of a threat in the brute force department, but investigating anybody who spends at least six hours in Noctis’ presence every school day and _then_ at the weekend as well is a prerequisite to their continued time together. The chocobo-butt kid’s air of hyperactive innocence could just be a facade, although as the kid fist bumps the air with a whooping cheer, Gladio doesn’t think so.

“So _you’re_ the new kid on the block, huh?” Gladio says, slinging an arm around blondie’s shoulders. The kid yelps, losing a fight with the rifle-controller of the arcade game and wincing when it _cracks_ against the console. The gun bobs in place on the end of the plastic coil before Noctis scoops it up, unfazed by Gladio shit-eating grin and his friend’s flustered panic in the Shield’s grasp.

“Relax, it’s just Gladio,” drawls the Prince, feeding the game another coin.

Chocobo-butt definitely doesn’t relax. “Your Sworn Shield? Gladiolus Amicitia? Built like a tank and probably’d beat one in a fight - _that_ Gladio?”

Gladio doubts that the kid even knows what a filter is. It’s a good sign - it means he’s probably a shit liar - and at the very least it’s a breath of fresh air compared to those in service of the crown - especially Ignis. “That’s me. Who’re you?”

“I’m Prompto please don’t kill me,” the kid replies in a single breath. “I didn’t mean that about the tank - except that I did, you’re so tall, what the hell, your arms are _really big_ \- but in a good way! Totally a good way.”

“Relax,” Noctis repeats, turning from the arcade game to offer what he believes to be a reassuring look. “He’s not going to eat you.”

“He could,” Prompto squeaks, eyeing Gladio’s arms like a mouse in a corner. “Couldn’t you?”

“I try not to make a habit of it,” Gladio agrees, letting his grin do most of the talking. “But I guess someone’s gotta knock you Alphas down a few pegs from time to time.”

“Wha -” Prompto frowns, sniffing the air. “You’re a _Beta_? But you smell -” He sniffs again, nose scrunching in concentration, and at once Gladio regrets being so physically affectionate with the kid, his arm still looped around Prompto’s shoulders and his chest almost level with the befuddled look in the teenager’s eyes.

“Big for a Beta, isn’t he?” Noctis agrees, blissfully oblivious as he continues massacring the zombies in the game.

“Scrawny for an Alpha, aren’t you?” Gladio fires back, hoping to distract Prompto from whatever tentative conclusions he is making. Never before has an Alpha outright _questioned_ his Role; Gladio’s father would have certainly informed him had his scent changed, so Prompto’s nose must be more sensitive than most.

Luckily, Noctis colours with affront right on cue. “Hey! I’m not _scrawny_ ,” he bemoans, and Prompto’s laughter has the Prince crossing his arms in a sulk. “Prom, you’re meant to be on my _side_.”

“Sorry, sorry! But you _are_ kinda scrawny though - I am too!” he reassures with another laugh, holding his hands up in surrender. “But it’s cool, really. Physical appearance doesn’t say anything about your Role.”

The phrase sounds practiced to Gladio’s ears, as though this is something Prompto has told others or himself many-a-time before. This isn’t a surprise - he’s skinnier than Noctis and shorter even with his boots, but physical appearance aside there is a playfulness about him, a cheerfulness or an innocence perhaps, not often associated with the regiment, overwhelming Alphas. He’s probably been assumed an Omega countless times.

“Kid, I think we’re gonna get along _great_ ,” Gladio says, shooting Prompto a toothy grin. “You met Iggy yet?”

Prompto doesn’t seem to agree with this assessment. “Err, the guy in the car?”

Gladio takes that as a _no_. “Awesome. Noct, finish your game. Got the east field booked out for training tonight -”

“Running,” Noctis despairs. “ _Joy_.”

“ - and I figured your friend could tag along. Dinner at mine afterwards - Iris is at a sleepover.”

Noctis shoves the plastic gun back into the holder, unable to mask his relief. Gladio laughs low, aware of his sister’s little crush on the Prince. It’s a harmless infatuation as far as he’s concerned, and he enjoys watching Noctis squirm. Gladio may be a Royal Shield, but Noctis has to learn how to deal with girls for himself.

“Wait, we’re going to the _citadel_? I can’t go in there!” Prompto squeaks, staring between them with wide, mouse-like eyes. Nervousness overpowers his Alpha scent as the teenager begins to fluster, and Gladio can’t be sure if he prefers the smell or not. If Noctis were anxious, Gladio would offer a steady reassurance, a hand on his shoulder, a presence at his back, and maybe an easy smile or two, but though he aches to put Prompto at ease, he doesn’t think such methods would be effective. Prompto looks like a slap on the back would break him in half.

“Why not?” Noctis replies, fussing with his hair. “You’ll be with us.”

“But -”

“Too late now, blondie. Nothing to worry about,” Gladio says. He leads the teenagers out of the arcade with a rougher hand than usual, unwilling to hang around to see what Prompto’s puppy-dog-eyes will reduce him too. Something doesn’t feel right - hasn’t felt right since he entered this dark and sweaty building - and hastening back to the regimented lull of the citadel is Gladio’s priority. There has to be something up with his suppressants; never before has an Alpha’s scent caused his head to spin like this. Gladio feels like a young teen on the cusp of Settling - and that’s an experience he doesn’t want to repeat.

 

 

 

By the time Ignis materialises in the Amicitia household to whisk Noctis and Prompto back to their apartments, Gladio is exhausted. Knocking the Prince around the training field had only temporarily relieved his unexplainable light-headed spell, but Gladio is the Sworn Shield for a reason, and he powered through the evening despite how his stomach writhed and churned. He isn’t sure how he looks, but if Noct’s side-eyed glances and Prompto’s tight-lipped silence weren’t enough, Ignis descends upon him as the two friends throw together their belongings and shuffle into their shoes.

“Are you unwell?” Ignis asks, swooping down like a goddamn eagle and laying a palm against Gladio’s forehead before he can get a word in otherwise. Big enough to take care of himself, Gladio is scarcely on the receiving end of Ignis’ fussing - a privilege reserved for the Prince. Ignis’ sharp eye and librarian-scary, glasses-on-his-nose kind of look are disconcerting to say the least, and Gladio understands in a horrifying moment of clarity why Noctis both secretly-appreciates and fears Ignis’ concern.

Gladio doubts that Noctis is aware of just how _good_ Ignis smells though - just as Gladio, himself, had never paid much attention to his scent before, just as he had never felt dizzy looking at an Alpha’s goofy smiles, or unsettled and yet oddly _warm_ at the centre of their attention before.

“Perhaps you should rest early tonight,” Ignis is saying, not that Gladio is really aware of anything except the lingering touch of the Alpha’s hand against his forehead. “Do you require me to visit the pharmacy for anything?”

“Err,” Gladio replies, trying to focus on the question and not the tingling of his skin or the restlessness of his stomach - and definitely not Noctis and Prompto bickering in the entrance hallway or the few strands of Ignis’ hair that are sticking up by his ears. “Nah, I’ll just hit the hay, I think. Get some shut eye.”

“If you’re sure,” Ignis replies, conceding with his _I think you’re an idiot_ tone.

Right now, the only thing Gladio is sure of is that he needs to _not_ be in the presence of three incredibly irresistible - come on, he’s not blind - Alphas, one of which being the _Crown Prince of Lucis_.

Thankfully - _blissfully_ \- Ignis ushers the twerps out without any fanfare, allowing Gladio to tidy up the last of the mess, shoot Iris a text, and then faceplant onto his bed with a groan. He hopes that he’ll feel better come tomorrow, when he can take another suppressant. Unless the problem is with the suppressants themselves, but they’ve never made him feel queasy before, and he’s used the same brand since he Presented at fifteen. He vaguely remembers the list of side effects that the nurse recited to him those few years ago, but Gladio can’t recall anything about his head feeling empty and his skin itching like a burn. The itching is reminiscent of that dreadful week before his Presentation, though, and given that he had totally wanted to follow Ignis out of the house just to keep on _smelling_ him, Gladio has a rough idea what might be going on.

The nurse had advised him to experience a couple of heats a year - Gladio hasn’t had any. Guess his body’s decided that it’s had enough of that.

“Fuck,” he grumbles into the pillow, hoping against hope that his heat will go away and he’ll feel better in the morning.

He doesn’t. The itching is a scalding rash now, and the first thing Gladio does upon waking is stagger into the bathroom and throw up his dinner. Iris knocks on the door just as Gladio almost concusses himself on the sink, so he mumbles some excuse in the hope that she’ll leave. When she only pokes her tiny head around into the bathroom and asks if he needs any help, he lobs the tube of toothpaste at the door. He regrets it immediately, but it does the trick in dissuading her from entering to see him in his miserable state.

He hopes she won’t be back.

Splashing water on his face does _fuck all_ , but he can’t bring himself to shower. He’s sweaty in places that he’s never sweated before, and that’s an achievement considering he hits the gym (and the Prince) on a daily basis. With another groan, he slobs back into the bedroom to locate his suppressants, but another awful twist of his gut has him hesitating before popping the morning’s pill.

Since he had started feeling sick while the suppressants _should_ have been in effect, there’s no telling if they’ll work now. He could try, but Gladio has a hunch that it’ll be a futile effort. Then he’ll be wasting a tablet _and_ he’ll have to put up with his friends’ fussing for the rest of the day, and Gladio decides that if he has to suffer, then he’d rather be in his bedroom, away from concerned eyes.

“Bahamut _end me_.”

He shoves the suppressants back into the drawer.

The next two days are some of the worst of Gladio’s life. For the first few hours, he tries to make himself comfortable and go back to sleep, but a primal restlessness eventually implores him to move. Thoughts and reason beset by burning instinct, Gladio apparently decides that his bed isn’t good enough and strips the mattress of the duvet and sheets, only to then heave the mattress away from the frame and drag it across his room. There isn’t anywhere in the room that seems an acceptable relocation for the mattress, but Gladio doesn’t let that stop him. The solution is simple: rearrange the furniture until he is satisfied with his new ‘bed’, which he builds in a newly-established corner of the room between the old bed-frame and the wardrobe. He dumps the duvet and the sheets in their new home, tosses over the pillows, and then when this fails to quell his restive mind, he adds the towels from the bathroom, some of his clothes, a half-empty bottle of water and a packet of crisps, and then, lastly, pulls his favourite shield out of Noctis’ arsenal.

Anybody else would weep at the mess, but Gladio isn’t picky.

The rest of his heat isn’t nearly so dependent on Gladio’s artistic prowess, but it is, arguably, just as physically taxing. Questionably snug but undeniably _safe_ within the hazardous blanket-fort-den-bed he has created, Gladio won’t remember much of the second day of his heat. He’ll recall craving neither food nor water, but wish that either could satisfy the almost sickening _need_ that afflicts him. His mobile will sound countless times but his bedroom door will never once open, and he’ll be relieved for that mercy as he sweats to death in the tangles of the duvet, mumbling nonsense-words of pain amidst even _less_ sensible pleas to be touched and cared for, kissed and rolled over and _bedded_ , held down and _fucked_ like there’s no tomorrow, as though he’s an animal with no sense of time or duty or want for anything but to spread his legs and feel _good_ as he’s loved and filled up and _bred_.

“What the fuck,” is Gladio’s first reasonable thought after it’s over, his mouth a desert and saliva sticking his cheek to the pillow, recollecting in fragments how he fingered himself with a frenzy beyond all rational pleasure, and yet reaching his peak four, five, or astrals, _how many times_ still hadn’t been _enough_ . There are no words for the shame that he feels - and words he cannot bear to say for the bone-tired ache that his body has been reduced to. Everything is sore, _even his fingers are sore_ , and Gladio lifts himself with no small amount of regret to take in the sight of his unrecognisable bedroom. The light is on and the curtains are drawn - a small mercy - but nothing else is in its usual place. The wardrobe has _fallen over_ , and Gladio stares at the scattering of his clothes and hangers and wonders if Niflheim bombed his bedroom.

There is a knock at the door.

“Gladdy,” Iris calls, and Gladio swears high and mighty as he scrambles out of the den - he’s _naked_ , _what the hell_ \- and skids on a random bottle of water to slam against the door before she can even _consider_ opening it up. Vaguely, he remembers throwing something at her in a haze of misery and embarrassment, and these feelings have only increased tenfold now as he notices that his fingernails are hardened with blood.

Ifrit’s _ballsack_ , he fucked himself into the floor and he couldn’t even do it _properly_?

“Iris. You okay kiddo?” Gladio says - wheezes, chokes. As far as he remembers, it’s the first thing he’s said for days, but it definitely doesn’t _feel_ like it. His sister can’t see him like this; Gladio doesn’t want to see himself like this.

From the other side of the door, there is a sigh of relief. It sounds as though Iris has slid down the door to her knees, and Gladio crouches down with a wince to hear her next whisper, “Are _you_ okay? Do you need anything? I don’t have to come in if you don’t want me to, but it _is_ over, isn’t it?”

 _Fuck_ , Gladio thinks. “Yeah - yeah, it’s over I think. What’s, err, what day is it?”

“You’ve been in there two days,” Iris replies. “I told everyone that you were contagious. Prince Noctis tried to come and see you but I - um - I managed to keep him away. Dad isn’t back from his trip yet, so it’s just us and Jared around.”

“Iris, you’re a _star_.”

“Not really,” she mumbles, raising red flags in Gladio’s mind. “There is - there is one problem.”

“What is it? Are you okay? If it’s the Crownsguard kicking up a fuss -”

“It’s Ignis,” Iris cuts in, sighing his name the way she usually reserves for her brother. “I couldn’t keep him away. He kept trying to call you and I didn’t realise he was so _stubborn_.”

Gladio laughs despite himself, but this doesn’t change the icy dread replacing the lingering fires of his heat in his gut. Ignis is far too _Ignis_ to be fooled by Iris’ lie. “Is he in the house now?”

“Yeah. He’s cooking. He’s been cooking all morning.”

“Okay,” Gladio says, summoning up his Amicitia calm. Panicking won’t change anything, and the last two days have been stressful enough. “Okay. Don’t worry about him, kiddo, I’ll talk to him once I’ve - sorted myself out. Tell ‘im since he’s cooking in my house, he better be making my favourite.”

“He’s kind of scary at the moment,” Iris admits, but at Gladio’s reassurance, she’s goes to face the Alpha that has invaded their kitchen.

Gladio needs to clean himself up before he follows, but first he scours the room for his mobile. It’s almost flat, and when Gladio unlocks it he is greeted with thirty-four missed calls, a staggering twenty-five of which are from Ignis alone. There are a couple of texts from Noctis and a voice message from one of Gladio’s superior officers in the Crownsguard, but nothing worth noting. Since the citadel hasn’t collapsed in his absence, Gladio’s next task is to rid himself of two days worth of sweat and (mostly) dried bodily fluids. There aren’t any clean towels but he can’t bring himself to care, deciding to tidy up his bedroom after he is clean, fed, and has survived the lecture that Ignis has no doubt prepared.

The shower is bliss. Gladio nods off for a second with his face smushed against the glass. He’s so thirsty that he might just drink the sonic spray. He nearly falls out of the shower when his legs decide to screw him over, but somehow he manages to make his way down to the kitchen without hobbling or killing himself on the stairs.

Iris and Jared are noticeably absent, but that’s probably for the best. Gladio will have to thank his little sister for straight up _lying_ to the Crown Prince later - assuming, that is, that whatever Ignis has in store doesn’t kill him. It smells _good_ , whatever it is, and if death by Ignis’ cooking is the way he’s going to go, then Gladio doesn’t think that will be so bad.

Or maybe it’s the Alpha himself that smells so inviting. That is a real possibility right now.

“There are painkillers and a bottle of water on the table, if you so desire,” Ignis informs him without turning around. He looks his usual immaculate self in a white shirt and perfectly ironed trousers, buttons fastened to the collar and sleeves rolled up as he chops vegetables at the counter. Not a single hair is out of place despite working in a kitchen unfamiliar to him, and he moves effortlessly between the cupboards and the stove. He is controlled in a way that Gladio has always respected, and this difference between them is apparent as Gladio pads bare-footed over to the table in sweatpants and a vest.

“I suggest drinking as much of that as you can manage,” Ignis says as Gladio knocks back the pills with a sip from the litre bottle of water. “Have you taken a suppressant since awakening?”

“Err,” Gladio says, unsettled by the complete lack of passive-aggressive-Ignis. Truthfully, it’s a miracle that he didn’t slip over and break his neck in the shower, but Ignis probably knows that already. “No.”

“I thought not,” Ignis concedes, and Gladio glances over just in time to see him wrinkle his nose. Before Gladio has time to feel offended by the action, Ignis continues, “If you would permit me to enter your room, I can collect them for you.”

“It’s a bit of a dump at the moment,” Gladio admits, but he waves a dismissive hand. “But sure, whatever I guess.”

“You guess?”

Gladio rolls his eyes over the rim of the bottle. “Astrals, Iggy, it’s just my bedroom, you don’t have to keep asking.”

“Gladio,” comes a sigh; the beginning of the lecture, no doubt. Gladio recognises the tone, he’s been on the unfortunate end of it more times than he can count. “You have been bed-ridden with heat for the last two days, a time during which you are at your most susceptible to an Alpha’s presence -”

Ignis says _susceptible_ , but Gladio hears _vulnerable_ . He recaps the bottles with an excessive _crunch_ of the plastic, fighting the urge to shuffle around so that the table is between him and Ignis’ exasperated glare. His top lip curls up at the thought of being taken _advantage_ of like a child without the common-sense not to trust a stranger with candy. “If you’re so worried about _Influencing me_ , then the hell are you doing here?”

Ignis wipes his hands on the apron, and it must just be an Omega’s overactive post-heat _nonsense_ calling the shots, for Gladio feels _unclean_ in comparison. If Ignis has any idea, then he pays it no mind: “I am your friend, Gladio, and I was concerned that you would fail to take care of yourself during your heat.”

“I’m not incompetent.” The fact that he hadn’t eaten, rehydrated, showered, or even had the foresight to use _lube_ during his heat is a moot point; Gladio refuses to rise to the bait.

“And yet here we are,” Ignis replies with more of a bite, a sign that his patience is wearing thin. Usually, it takes much more than a few snappy comments to frustrate him, but then he’s not usually in making breakfast after Gladio has spent two days fucking himself into a mattress - and badly. “As I could not recall a time in recent years when you had leave for more than an afternoon, I gathered that you had never experienced a heat before. While I am appalled that you would abuse your medication without considering the consequences for your body, I am not here to lecture you about that.”

If his takes off his glasses to give them a clean, Gladio might vault over the table and punch him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“ _Rather_ , I feared that you had not taken the necessary precautions before your heat, and I imagine that if I go up into your bedroom, there will be plenty of evidence for my concern. Not only are you dehydrated, you have neither eaten nor slept well, and that shower has done little more than temporarily mask your scent. I can smell that you are wounded, Gladio, and I don’t just mean physically. Your stubborn pride has gotten you into this mess, and it is the reason that you are refusing my help when you so clearly need it. I suggest -”

He stops. Words do not fail Ignis, so he must have finally realised that Gladio is _growling_ . For a moment, the Amicitia household is alive with nothing but the sound of an Omega’s defensive snarl, but Gladio is _happy_ to offer his own choice of words to the dumb struck Alpha.

“Anything else you’d like to add? Or would you rather I just roll over and let you _help me_ until your _poor_ Alpha instincts stop crying about the stupid, defenceless, _little Omega_ having a goddamn heat _in his own home_?”

Ignis veers back from the countertop as though he’s been slapped, and Gladio, too, feels a gasping breath of reality punch into his lungs. Ignis is his _friend_ and he regrets letting his mouth run, but Gladio cannot deny the burn of satisfaction as Ignis clears his throat, abashed by his temper as another, heavier silence descends over the kitchen.

“I apologise,” says the advisor, wringing his hands in the apron. “I have no excuse for what I said.”

Gladio doesn’t think that’s true. Ignis is so concerned about Influencing _him_ , that he probably never stopped to consider that the tail-end of Gladio’s heat might affect himself instead. Gladio doesn’t know if that’s enough of an excuse to warrant the dick-waving competition, but Ignis continues before he can make sense of these thoughts.

“You are right, of course. I should not have occupied your kitchen without your permission, especially at the inconvenience of your sister and butler -”

“But you did cook, yeah?” Gladio cuts in, recognising the onset of Ignis’ apologetic rambling. That’s almost worse than the Alpha-edge to his voice; listening to Ignis rambling makes Gladio feel _weird_.

Ignis startles. “I - yes, of course. That is what I - I mean, I merely -”

“I am pretty hungry,” Gladio adds, perhaps too carefully to be casual. He thinks the painkillers might be kicking in, because he’s starting to feel more like himself; starting to crave Ignis’ cooking and _not_ his scent. “And we don’t want to waste it.”

“No, we don’t want that,” Ignis agrees slowly, looking grateful at the excuse to move the conversation on. “I have prepared enough food for the rest of the day; for Iris, as well. I’ve also put on a pot of tea, although I imagine it may have cooled somewhat now.”

“Not coffee?”

“I was under the belief that you would prefer to be calmed, rather than stimulated, in your state.”

Ignis must be the only person in the world able to say _stimulated_ with a straight face, but that’s not what bothers Gladio here. “ _In my state_ ,” he drawls, and to his relief, Ignis flushes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and though it seems to pain him to admit, he adds, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“It’s cool,” Gladio says, sharing the sentiment about disclosing his feelings. “Me neither.”

So they are on similar footing after all.

 

 

 

“You and Ignis,” Noctis opens with later that week, gesturing a slice of pizza between Gladio and the empty space on the sofa. It’s probably supposed to signify the absent advisor, but as far as Gladio is aware, Ignis isn’t going to be making an appearance tonight. At the first mention of junk-food and video-games, he had politely declined participation in what will likely be a _long_ night, and as the Prince shoots Gladio a pointed look over his sixth slice of pizza, Ignis probably had the right idea.

“You had a fight or something?” Noctis asks, chasing a meatball that tries to escape back into the box. Despite being slathered in grease and clearly enjoying himself, he achieves the stern look that will one day sway the council and bow kingdoms to his will. “You’ve been acting kind of weirdly these last few days. Is something going on?”

Gladio casts a sorrowful look at his own pizza, wishing that he begged off spending the evening in the Prince’s apartment rather than caving to the bribe. It’s not as though he has anything better to be doing; he doesn’t have to worry about Iris now that their father is back, and he really would like to avoid Ignis for a few hours. That’s the crux of the problem at the end of the day, and Gladio is surprised that Noctis has picked up on it. Prompto’s _nose_ is enough of a nuisance; dealing with a perceptive Prince isn’t what Gladio needs right now.

Ignis’ fussing is tiring enough. He’s subtle about it - it’s _Ignis_ \- but he’s been _different_ since he learnt of Gladio’s Role. Truthfully, Gladio was expecting more of a song and dance about it; Ignis never did give him that lecture, but maybe his behaviour over the last few days is his way of making up for it. Now that the suppressants have kicked back in, there’s nothing about Gladio’s scent that suggests he was anything but ill. As far as he can tell, nobody is any the wiser of what went down - except Ignis, of course, which Gladio is relieved about. Revealing himself as an Omega had _not_ been and probably never _will be_ a desire of his, so he’s grateful that only one person found out. And in the grand scheme of things, it could have been worse. Ignis is an Alpha, yes, but he’s a friend and colleague, and Gladio trusts him with the Prince’s well-being on a daily basis. He is also privy to council meetings and confidential information, so really, there isn’t a better person to entrust a secret. Ignis would never use sensitive information for personal gain, and he made it clear that afternoon in the Amicitia household that the thought of using Gladio’s Role against him appalls him.

Which is good. Great. Honestly not exactly what Gladio had expected, but awesome.

This hasn’t stopped Ignis from _worrying_ . It’s an unobtrusive kind of worrying; he isn’t trailing after Gladio like an overbearing mother, but he has taken it upon himself to _learn every possible fact about Omegas ever_ , researching heats, medication, society and their social history to death. Ignis always applies himself above and beyond everybody else, and Gladio supposes that having someone who actually knows about this stuff won’t hurt. (Bahamut knows that _he_ hasn’t picked up a health leaflet in years). He had, after all, wanted someone to talk to from time to time, and though Ignis isn’t the Omega that Gladio envisioned, he’ll do.

Still. Gladio may or may not be avoiding him. Letting Ignis research to his heart’s content is one thing, but _astrals above_ Gladio’s not in the mood for a Q-and-A.

“We’re not fighting,” Gladio says, and that’s only a _teeny_ lie. “It’s nothing for you to worry about; it won’t affect the crown.”

Noctis rolls his eyes, his exasperation diminished by the cheese stuck to his mouth. “I’m not worried about the crown, here. You two are more dedicated to your duty than _me_.” (Well that’s true, Gladio thinks). “But whatever. Fetch me another drink, would you?”

“Fetch it yourself, _Your Highness_ ,” Gladio drawls, throwing an empty can at him.

Noctis laughs and tosses it back. It sails straight over Gladio’s head and clatters somewhere amidst the pizza boxes. “Oi Prom,” he calls out to the kitchen instead, and the fridge has already opened with a clang before he adds, “Chuck us another ginger beer.”

“There better be some pizza left,” Prompto bemoans, kind enough to close the distance before lobbing the can across the room. Gladio wouldn’t have; the Prince needs all of the reflex-training he can get.

Said Prince just hoovers up another slice with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading~


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